That made not a lick of sense.
But then, Jacob supposed, his own methods of focusing had never made much sense to other people, either.
“And the alternative,” she went on, “is to let me sing to myself, which would probably disrupt the guests’ eggs something awful.”
“I can’t decide if you’re serious or if you’re just being a—”
“Returning to the subject at hand, I think I have a solution to your latest stick up the arse,” she said, briskly cutting him off. “Yesterday, before—well, before—you were blathering on about a trial, correct?”
“Incorrect,” he shot back. “I do not blather.”
She stared at him for a moment before murmuring, “Dear God, you are so much fun.”
He hadn’t picked up any of the usual indicators—excessive emphasis on unexpected words, for example—but that absolutely had to be sarcasm. Even if Eve was currently watching him with a gleam of amusement in her eye.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the point is, you wanted to trial me. So trial me.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?” A trial? Surely she didn’t mean—
“Let me make you breakfast.” Apparently she did mean. Interesting. “Here, sit down.” She wrapped a hand around his elbow, and Jacob jolted like he’d been shocked. Shit. She snatched her hand away. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “Er, sorry. Do you not like to be—I shouldn’t have—”
“Bruises,” he lied through gritted teeth. Because he couldn’t exactly say, It appears physical contact with you has an atypical effect on my nervous system. And yet, it did. An effect that made him hyperaware of the flimsy jersey pajama pants he currently wore, pants that did nothing to hide an erection.
Not that he had an erection. That would be ridiculous. That would be obscene.
He was just a little bit worried that he might eventually get one, perhaps, for some reason. Who knew? You could never be too careful about these things.
“I’m going back upstairs,” he blurted, striding toward the door. “Going upstairs to . . . change. And things. Later. I’ll come down later. To . . . test you. Erm . . . keep up the barely acceptable work.”
“Barely acceptable?!”
“That’s what I said,” Jacob sniffed, and then he made good his escape.
Chapter Seven
It took Jacob so long to come back, Eve was almost convinced he’d forgotten about her.
Almost.
But a man with that level of dogged focus probably didn’t forget much. Except, apparently, for the little chat they’d had last night, while he’d been curled up in bed like the world’s most adorable wolf. Because she had a feeling that if he’d remembered that, he would’ve ramped up the arsehole behavior by at least 50 percent this morning.
As it was, he’d been practically cordial.
Eve was waving off the last of the guests with a smile when the kitchen door swung open behind her. Her tentative glow of success faded like sunlight behind a cloud, because the snick of that door handle brought her earlier challenge flying back like Thor’s hammer.
You wanted to trial me. So trial me. Let me make you breakfast.
A test. She had volunteered herself for a test—also known as her number one weakness and natural enemy.
For fuck’s sake, she didn’t even want this job. What in God’s name had she been thinking?!
That everyone assuming you’re useless and incapable is starting to get old.
Hm. Well. There was that.
Still, she was already feeling the familiar high-pressure jitters that accompanied formal judgment of any kind. Her palms were clammy. Her pulse vibrated in her veins. Had she always produced this much spit? Slowly, she turned around to face the man she knew was waiting.
And almost dropped down dead when she laid eyes on him. “Good Lord,” she murmured.
Jacob—or rather, Super Jacob, because that’s how he looked—arched a pale eyebrow. “Pardon me?”
If he was any other man, this would be the point where she made a comment about his outrageous hotness.
After his earlier disheveled appearance, which had honestly been—gag—cute, Jacob had clearly decided to remind the world exactly how put together he could be. The razor precision of his close shave displayed those unholy cheekbones to unfair advantage. The bladelike part of his blond hair somehow emphasized the sharp line of his jaw, the unfair symmetry of his face, the angular shape of those pale, wolflike eyes. He’d managed to put on a crisp, gray shirt despite his cast, the right sleeve folded up around his biceps. And the jeans he wore hugged his lower half in a way she could only call subtly obscene. One probably wouldn’t notice the slight outline of his massive fucking package, unless you were looking (and Eve had no idea why she’d been looking), in which case, you really couldn’t un-notice it.
Gosh.
He cocked his head. “Eve?”
She swallowed, clearing her throat. Time to say something unaffected and totally professional. “How’d you get the shirt on?”
His eyes narrowed.
Yes, brilliant, Eve. Question him about his clothing habits. Evoke mental images of him naked. Well done.
After a frigid moment, he muttered, “I cut the sleeve.”
Despite herself, she squinted at the sleeve in question. “Did you?”
“I shortened it, then cut along the hem so it would fold higher, then stitched the edges so it would look neater.”
When she moved closer—all the better to stare at his impossible handiwork—Jacob shifted to the side as if to hide it from her. “Christ, woman, don’t inspect it. I’m shit with my left hand.”
She paused. “You mean, when you said you did all that—”
“Yes.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “I did mean the literal interpretation of the word I. Most people do.”
“But your wrist is broken!”
“Believe me,” he said dryly, “I’d noticed.”
Eve flushed. No wonder he’d been gone for hours—from the sound of things, it must have taken him that long to get dressed. “You do realize that broken limbs are usually a valid excuse to dress . . . a little differently than usual?”
“You do realize,” he drawled, “that excuses are not something I’ve ever been interested in?”
Well, yes, she was starting to get that vibe.
“Now,” he continued, “if we could return to the point—you’re supposed to be making me breakfast.”
Oh. Yes. Eve gulped and turned away from him, heading to the shiny, double-doored fridge. “You know, I would’ve cooked for you regardless,” she quipped, except her voice wasn’t as light as she’d like. “You don’t need to dress it up like an exam.”
“If I remember rightly, you were the one who came up with the idea.”
Yes, she was, and she sincerely desired to travel back in time and kick herself. When she faced him again, Jacob had made himself comfortable leaning against the wall. The pose seemed so casual, with his long legs and his lean hips and the easy angles of his body, that it took her a moment to notice the slight wince on his face. He hid it well. But it was still there, shadowing those icy eyes and twisting his fine mouth at the corners.
Throwing sausages into a hot pan, she said, “You should probably sit down.” There were a couple of stools at the central island—uncomfortable, steel-looking stools, but stools all the same.
Jacob grunted and shifted against the wall, a sinuous predator trying to get comfortable. “Can’t.”
Oh. Ah. Yes. Eve remembered Mont’s comment about arse-bruising and tried not to drown in this brand-new influx of guilt.
“Didn’t I tell you to take that out?” he went on, nodding at her.
It took Eve a moment to realize what he meant. Her hand rose automatically to her ear, as if to protect the source of NAO’s “Bad Blood” from his evil eyes. “And didn’t I tell you,” she shot back, “that I work better with it in?” She sounded a hell of a lot more confident than she felt—because that
, she’d discovered, was the knack with Jacob: confidence.
He might be tough, might be harsh, but he didn’t do it in the hopes of crushing those around him. He did it with the assumption that if they were stronger, better, right, they’d push back.
So he reacted just as she’d expected, tilting his head like a wolf examining strange prey instead of biting its head off. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “You mentioned before that you could sing instead.”
She pressed her lips together as she soaked bread in egg and cinnamon. “Could being the operatic word.”
His lips tilted at the corner into something that was almost—a smile. A smile like slow-dripping honey beneath the summer sun. She faltered, a little bit stunned. Jacob made ice look good, but apparently, he made warmth look even better.
Oh dear.
“Since it’s an option . . . I would rather you sing,” he said, “even if it’s terrible, than appear ignorant toward guests.”
“Ignorant?! I’m only wearing one.”
He straightened, strolling over to the dining room window and pulling down the hatch with his good hand. Eve tried not to be salty about the fact that rolling the thing up had taken two hands and a few hops on her part. “I see that, Eve. I also see a Trip Advisor review titled RUDE CHEF, WEEKEND GETAWAY RUINED. People find unusual habits more charming when they are included. So, if singing is a viable alternative for you—consider it.”
People find unusual habits more charming when they are included. Eve had always known that, in the back of her mind, but it was something she’d resented, and so she tended to ignore it. Now, though—now, here was Jacob, laying it out like a military tactic rather than some sort of moral directive. Like a strategy they were smart enough to deploy upon people who just didn’t understand, rather than a behavioral correction.
Slowly, cautiously, she found herself saying, “I’ll . . . give it a try.”
He met her eyes for a moment. “Well. I appreciate that.” Then he faltered, as if he hadn’t meant to say something so reasonable. Within seconds, his familiar glare was back, scalping her with its mighty force. Eve didn’t mind.
Actually, she found this much easier to deal with than Jacob Masquerading as a Nice Man. That whole us against them routine had threatened to do something terrible and ominous to her nether regions.
“As for right now,” he went on, his tone frostier, “you might as well play your music out loud. Unless you find it more helpful when it’s directly in your ear.”
And there he went again—even cold, he illustrated an understanding of how her needs worked. Or maybe it was simply an attempt at understanding, which, for some reason, Eve found just as satisfying. Either way, he needed to stop before she got all confused and started to accidentally enjoy his presence a bit. This was meant to be a test, damn it. She was supposed to be sick with nerves right now, and also with hating him. He was ruining everything, and it would serve him right if she threw her fried bread mixture over his head.
But Eve was a reasonable, responsible, semiprofessional woman these days, so instead, she set the mixture aside, put her soaked bread in the pan, then pulled out her phone and uncoupled her AirPod. Lilting piano notes filled the room, accompanied by a pounding beat and rhythmic French rap. Watching Jacob as he returned to his spot leaning against the wall, she explained, “It’s—”
“Stromae,” he finished. “What’s this one called?”
She stared. Stromae, he said, all casual, as if it made perfect sense that he’d know such a thing.
He clicked his fingers, then nodded. “‘Papaoutai.’ Right?”
She stared some more. “You listen to Belgian rap from 2013?”
“No,” he said.
Well, at least that made sense.
“I listened to Belgian rap in 2013.”
And, she was back to the staring. “Est-ce que tu parles français?”
“Oui. Toi aussi?”
“Passablement. Mon vocabulaire est faible.”
“Un enfant m’a appris, il y a des années, donc ma grammaire est pauvre.”
“Your grammar doesn’t sound poor to me,” she said pertly.
“And I see no holes in your vocabulary. I suppose we’d have to talk a little longer to discover all that, but this isn’t a tea party.”
Eve huffed out a breath. “Oh, yes. How could I forget? I’m being tested, and you’re impossible.”
“Usually, people who want a job from me are a bit more polite.”
“I’ve come to the conclusion,” she gritted out as she flipped his eggs, “that you are incredibly difficult to be polite to.” And I don’t want your bloody job. Even if she had sort of accidentally enjoyed herself this morning, once she’d gotten the hang of things.
She was jolted out of that unexpected thought when Jacob released a bark of laughter. It was so sudden, and so completely surprising, that she spun to look at him—as if further inspection might reveal that the noise had come from someone else.
But no: judging by the ghost of a smile still on his lips, and the lines fanning from the corners of those piercing eyes, it had definitely been him. Even if he cleared his throat and iced up under her gaze faster than a puddle in December.
Still, she had to ask. “Did you just laugh? Did I just make you laugh?”
“Woman,” he sighed, “you couldn’t make me do anything, even with a gun in your hand.”
Funnily enough, she believed him. But he had laughed. She’d heard him. The sound, wry and rusty, had been a little bit like music.
“Hurry up with the breakfast, would you?” he said, and though his tone was lazy, she had the distinct impression that Jacob was changing the subject. “If you’re not up to scratch, I’ll need to find another replacement, and the clock is ticking.”
Turning her back on him, Eve rolled her eyes. “Up to scratch. It’s only eggs and bloody sausages.”
“Actually,” he said sharply, “it’s much more than that. This is hospitality. Hospitality matters. Creating a home away from home matters. And I prefer staff who take this business—this responsibility—seriously.”
She faltered as his words sank in. Responsibility. Taking things seriously. Those were the things Eve had failed at most of all, and she was supposed to be fixing that.
She swallowed.
“Furthermore,” Jacob went on, “while my standards are high at all times, they are even higher when people from all over the country will soon be tasting Castell Cottage’s food.”
She blinked rapidly, shoving her discomfort aside as she stirred the scrambled eggs. “The whole country?”
“Yes. You do remember the reason I hired—considered hiring you, correct? The festival in Pemberton?”
Oh, shoot. “Yes,” Eve said brightly. “Of course.” Telling the truth—No, actually, I had entirely forgotten—seemed like it might cause an argument. But shit, now she felt even worse, because this Gingerbread Festival (whatever that entailed) was important to Ja—to the business, and it had dropped clean out of her head. She’d planned to stick around until the man she’d injured was somewhat back on his feet. But she couldn’t do that only to disappear when he really needed her, could she? For heaven’s sake, she’d messed him up so badly it took him hours to get dressed, never mind to hunt down another willing human-sacrifice-slash-chef.
Aaand there was her guilt again, like clockwork.
“What would—do I have to do?” she asked casually, her back still to him. “For the festival, I mean. What does it involve?”
Jacob gave a long-suffering sigh, as if she’d asked him to recite the periodic table. (Although, knowing him, he could probably do so with little difficulty.) “Don’t worry,” he drawled. “It’ll be quite simple, since my previous chef already planned everything. A few menu options—similar to those we offer during this breakfast service—will be written up on a board. Some can be prepared in advance; others are simple enough to make using the equipment I’ve already purchased.”
&n
bsp; Already purchased? Eve wasn’t the greatest with money, but she did know a new business couldn’t buy equipment without earning something back to make the purchase worth its while. Yet another reason why Jacob was so determined to go forward with this festival, she supposed.
“You will be responsible for cooking to order at the stall, and I’ll serve customers,” he continued.
“Ah—putting your winning personality to good use.”
“You have a very poor sense of humor,” Jacob said steadily. “If I were you, I’d keep that to myself.”
Eve rolled her eyes, but she was too busy wrestling with her own thoughts to really take offense. Because the more Jacob spoke, the more she became dreadfully convinced that staying in Skybriar longer than planned was her only moral course of action. The man needed her help—even if he’d likely rather die than phrase it that way. And Eve owed him said help, probably more than she’d ever owed anyone anything.
Which made her choice crystal clear. For the next month, whether he liked it or not, Eve Brown would work as a chef for Jacob Wayne. She would serve breakfast for dinner at a gingerbread parade or whatever, and only then would she disappear in a puff of smoke to begin her party-planning profession. All things considered, it seemed the least she could do.
Jacob cleared his throat, rudely interrupting her Very Serious Thought Process. “Am I getting this breakfast, or are you going to stand there looking grim all day?”
“Grim?” Eve yelped. “I never look grim. My resting expression is general delight.”
“Your resting expression is princess,” he muttered.
Princess. Her hands curled into fists.
“What?” Jacob barked at her silence. “Are you actually nervous about this? Because if you’ve been merrily feeding my guests substandard food all morning without saying a bloody word—”
For some reason, Jacob questioning the deliciousness of her breakfast was starting to piss Eve off. “Hard to speak to a man who’s asleep,” she pointed out sharply.
He flushed, strawberry ice cream again. Just a hint. But he also stood tall and narrowed those flinty eyes behind his glasses. “I have a concussion.” The Because you hit me with your car part did not need to be said.
Act Your Age, Eve Brown Page 8
